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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23593123">As You Wish</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism'>winwinism</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Request [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Post-Time Skip</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:48:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,879</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23593123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>There are probably easier fuck buddies one could have, but nothing beats working off teammate-induced sexual frustration like doing it with the man himself. Really. For all of his prohibitive hangups, Kiyoomi’s good. Good in a way that’s addictive yet slightly unsatisfying, like chocolate that’s just shy of sweet enough to truly sate, leaving him crawling back for more via pathetic come-hither messages or post-team outing come-ons. </p>
</blockquote>Five short scenes from Atsumu and Kiyoomi's relationship.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Request [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>670</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SakuAtsu Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>As You Wish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written in honor of <a href="https://twitter.com/sakuatsuweek">SakuAtsu Week</a>, and kinda-sorta fits the Hurt/Comfort prompt. </p><p><b>Content warnings:</b> brief discussion of panic attacks and emetophobia.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kiyoomi is horrible about texting back. Luckily, Atsumu is too proud to double-text, except he isn’t, and then he is, and then he’s throwing his phone down on the mattress and dragging his hands through his hair until he realizes he accidentally hit send on a half-finished glorified <em>wyd</em>, and now has to triple-text so Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s illiterate. It’s a rough life.</p><p>There are probably easier fuck buddies one could have, but nothing beats working off teammate-induced sexual frustration like doing it with the man himself. Really. For all of his prohibitive hangups, Kiyoomi’s good. Good in a way that’s addictive yet slightly unsatisfying, like chocolate that’s just shy of sweet enough to truly sate, leaving him crawling back for more via pathetic come-hither messages or post-team outing come-ons. </p><p>Shouyou, who has probably never had an impure thought in his life, is sharp enough to notice, but wildly misinterprets the whole dance on several occasions. </p><p>“Hey--” He leans into Atsumu’s side at one post-game restaurant outing, drawing a hand up to his face like a student whispering in class. “Are you and Sakusa-san okay?”</p><p>Atsumu pries his eyes off of Kiyoomi with great effort. “Y-yeah, why?”</p><p>“He’s been glaring at you, like, since we got here.”</p><p>“Has he? I didn’t notice,” Atsumu lies. Actually, he was the one who started it. “Well, we’re fine. Nothing happened. No problems. Our relationship is--” He makes an <em>okay </em>sign with forefinger and thumb and assures Shouyou, “<em>perfecto</em>.” </p><p>Also a lie. It could be improved on several points, Atsumu thinks--if Kiyoomi’s dick was in his throat fifteen minutes ago, for one, or if Kiyoomi had, say, <em>answered his most recent texts</em>. It’s been three nights. He doesn’t know what Kiyoomi even <em>does </em>when he’s not out doing volleyball with the Black Jackals. Does he sanitize his apartment? Read Proust? Practice deep-throating thirteen-inch dildos? Who knows?  </p><p>Shouyou, who in a parallel universe is a psychoanalyst or maybe a group therapist, seems unconvinced. His little orange brows knit, and he says, “I think he wants to talk to you about something.”</p><p><em>Talk</em>. That’s one word for it. “He’s free to do so any time.” </p><p>“Should <em>I</em> go to talk to him?” </p><p>“Oh, no no no no no.” Atsumu clamps a hand on Shouyou’s shoulder. “He’ll come to me when he’s ready.” </p><p>Kiyoomi glowers at him over cucumber water for the rest of the night. It’s unbearably sexy, and would’ve been enough to give Atsumu a boner if he wasn’t in possession of supreme self-control (and wasn’t sitting next to Shouyou, or the rest of his teammates, for that matter). </p><p>At the end of it, Kiyoomi does not come to Atsumu. Atsumu has been <em>ready </em>for far too long to wait any further. He pulls Kiyoomi into a narrow, darkened alley once he deems their teammates a sufficient distance away and kisses him on the jaw, one hand cradling the back of his neck and the other fisted in Kiyoomi’s jacket, then draws away with an unsubtle graze of teeth. Kiyoomi stiffens, but only for a moment.</p><p>“Come home with me,” Atsumu says. It comes out a reedy whisper, hardly the seductive invocation he’d imagined. Well, there’s always next time. Hopefully.</p><p>“Okay,” says Kiyoomi. Which, <em>duh</em>. He hadn’t been making eyes at Atsumu for nothing. Atsumu shouldn’t go warm all over just hearing it. He bites his lip to suppress a grin.</p><p>“Where’ve you been, anyway?” He steps back to give Kiyoomi some air, pats the firm brick shithouse of his chest as he goes. “Starting to wonder if you dropped your phone in the toilet.”</p><p>Kiyoomi’s brow furrows at the image. “I haven’t.”</p><p>“Oh. That’s stellar. I’m glad.”</p><p>“I was--” Atsumu pauses just before the mouth of the alley, looks back. “Doing yoga.”</p><p>Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up. “When I texted you?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh my god.” A technicolor image of Sakusa Kiyoomi in yoga pants, mid-downward dog, springs into his mind before he can think to resist it. “You do <em>yoga?</em>”</p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“Huh.” It fits, oddly enough. Given his freakish flexibility--and that is <em>not </em>a train of thought he needs to follow right now. “For <em>three days?</em>”</p><p>They emerge from the alley together, Atsumu shooting surreptitious glances both ways beforehand, and walk wordlessly in the direction of Atsumu’s flat. “When I saw your message,” Kiyoomi explains in a murmur he could almost mistake as <em>shy</em>, “it was late. And then…”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t have woken me up.” Not that he’d be dishonored to wake up for a 2 AM text from Sakusa Kiyoomi. </p><p>“...right. I didn’t know what to say, so I assumed a response was unnecessary.” </p><p><em>Ugh</em>. Doesn’t this guy know he can be as inane as he wants? “Feel free to ask me for suggestions. ‘Sumu-kun, you’re so cool. Well-observed, ‘Sumu-kun. As expected from the best setter in Japan.” </p><p>“Noted,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu’s flush deepens. </p><p>For that matter, he can’t even remember what he’d last sent--just that he’s been hankering for a reply. He extricates his phone from his pocket, grateful that Kiyoomi probably can’t see his blush by the light of streetlamps, and navigates to their texts. </p><p><strong>You: </strong>hahaha this looks like you<br/>
[attachment.jpg]</p><p>A photo of a grumpy raccoon, plucked from the Facebook page of a zoo. Fuck every volleyball in the world. </p><p>“You know what?” Atsumu sighs, steepling his fingers atop his brow. “Never mind.”</p><p> </p><p>Bit by bit, Atsumu comes to learn certain things about Kiyoomi. He asks Kiyoomi why he does yoga, expecting some flexibility-related reasoning, but Kiyoomi’s answer is simpler: self care. Kiyoomi tells him he meditates, too. So that’s two things. Atsumu doesn’t rule out the dildos until later, when Kiyoomi informs him post-blowjob he doesn’t have a gag reflex, and never has. Three things. </p><p>One night, after a bit of friendly dicking around, they both lay back on Atsumu’s freshly-changed sheets and stare at the lamp-lit ceiling. If he smoked, Atsumu would’ve lit a cigarette. In any case, he hopes Kiyoomi doesn’t notice all the dust up there. </p><p>“I’ve been practicing meditation for...ten years,” Kiyoomi’s telling him, at Atsumu’s behest. He’s not looking at Atsumu, but Atsumu won’t force him, lest he shatter this rare, fragile moment of divulgence. “One of my coaches from middle school introduced me.” </p><p>“Why for?” Atsumu asks. Kiyoomi’s throat bobs.</p><p>“Volleyball.” Indeed, the reason for all things. “Had performance anxiety. In elementary I was alright, but in middle school...it got worse. Way worse. Dunno why.” He falls silent for a moment. “I could barely play. Threw up before every match.” </p><p>“Jesus,” Atsumu says. It feels inadequate.</p><p>“Which, y’know. Gave me panic attacks, because I can’t stand throwing up.” He scowls as if recalling it. “Anyway, meditation helped.” His scowl soon fades, and he drums his fingers along the forearm hugging his bare stomach. “That, and meds, and getting better in general.”</p><p>“At volleyball?”</p><p>“Yeah. Once playing well was just muscle memory, I didn’t really have a reason to be anxious.”</p><p>Atsumu thinks dimly that one probably doesn’t need a <em>reason</em> to be anxious, per se, but he doesn’t say it. He reckons Kiyoomi knows better than he does. “Is yoga part of that, too?”</p><p>Kiyoomi glances over at him, just for a moment, and Atsumu sends up a half-second prayer that he isn’t being pushy. “Not really. I started that in university. Living alone was hard. It...kept me centered.” </p><p>“Oh,” says Atsumu.</p><p>“Keeps your joints limber,” Kiyoomi adds. He settles back into the pillow he’s claimed as his own, pursing his lips. Atsumu feels the strange intimacy of the situation all over, along with a guilty thread of satisfaction for having unlocked another piece of Kiyoomi’s backstory. Or whatever. He should probably try to even the score. </p><p>“Show me some moves sometime,” he says instead. Kiyoomi’s lips curve, faintly enough that Atsumu wonders if he’s mistaken.</p><p>           </p><p>Occasionally, Kiyoomi will text first. Atsumu pins no small part of his self-worth on these moments--which probably isn’t healthy, but whatever. </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>We shouldn’t do anything this week<br/>
I think I have a cold</p><p>“Fuck yeah,” Atsumu says into his bowl of stew (about the being-texted-first, <em>not </em>the cold), snagging a raised eyebrow from his roommate. </p><p>“Won something?” </p><p>“Just the love of my life,” Atsumu replies without thinking, applying thumbs to keyboard as he contemplates his response. “I mean--that was a joke. A <em>joke</em>.”</p><p><strong>You: </strong>genuinely heartbroken &lt;/3<br/>
u going to practice tmrw?</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>Yes, but taking it easy. I already told coach</p><p><strong>You:</strong> good<br/>
get sum rest, we need you</p><p><em>I need you</em>, Atsumu thinks pathetically, speaking only partly for his dick. </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>I will<br/>
Actually I was about to do some yoga</p><p>Atsumu no longer cares about his stew. He pushes his chair back and stands, attracting his roommate’s disconcerted attention once again.            </p><p><strong>You: </strong>oh word? <br/>
gonna teach me some moves?</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>If you want</p><p><strong>You: </strong>yes<br/>
i want </p><p>The typing bubble appears and disappears in sequence. Eyes glued to his phone, Atsumu brings his bowl over to the fridge and washes off one hand at a time. He can finish later. </p><p>By the type his bedroom door slams shut behind him, a new message has popped up in the chat. </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>[attachment.jpg]</p><p>It’s a selfie. Jesus frickin’ Christ. Atsumu has to clutch his phone to his chest and look skyward in divine thanks for a solid moment before he can examine it any further. Kiyoomi has taken the photo in a full-length mirror, presumably in his bedroom, looking down at his phone with the slightest pout imaginable, locks of hair falling into his face. His legs are contorted in some horrible pretzel-like shape, clad in--<em>oh my god</em>--neon purple, form-fitting leggings atop what Atsumu can only assume is a yoga mat. </p><p>“Oh my god,” Atsumu mouths. He saves the picture. </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>This is pigeon.</p><p><strong>You: </strong>are those yoga pants??? </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>Yes??</p><p><strong>You: </strong>cool cool cool<br/>
buddy, i have no idea what’s going on down there<br/>
closeup??</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>Just zoom in.</p><p>Atsumu zooms in. Far be it from him to disobey a direct order from Sakusa Kiyoomi. His legs look fantastic in yoga pants. Which is insane, because not only are their volleyball uniforms more revealing than them, he’s seen Kiyoomi’s legs fully naked on more than one occasion. And yet. And yet! </p><p><strong>You: </strong>maybe another angle?</p><p>Another pause. Atsumu waits with bated breath, then belatedly sits down beside so he isn’t pacing his bedroom like an idiot.</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>[attachment.jpg]</p><p>This one isn’t a mirror selfie. Rather, Kiyoomi holds his phone above his head, tipping his head back to look blankly, yet somehow demurely into the camera, showing off his collarbones and the fall of his cotton tee over his chest in the process. Atsumu traces his torso with much admiration, down to the twist of his muscular legs. His bulge, outlined in purple. Oh yeah. </p><p><strong>You: </strong>suddenly i’ve achieved enlightenment</p><p><strong>Omi-kun:</strong> So soon?</p><p><strong>You:</strong> yeah, i’m a model student<br/>
that your favorite position?</p><p>Atsumu smirks at his own innuendo. </p><p><strong>Omi-kun:</strong> I don’t really have a favorite<br/>
[attachment.jpg]</p><p>This photo, another mirror selfie, sees Kiyoomi assuming a new pose: belly to the mat, he arches his torso up and snaps a photo with one hand while the other wraps around his ankle, knees lifted off the mat and bent inward. It makes his bubble butt look incredible.</p><p><strong>Omi-kun:</strong> This is bow.</p><p><strong>You: </strong>christ, kiyoomi</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>?</p><p><strong>You: </strong>you’re so</p><p>Atsumu scrubs a hand over his face. His skin is already warm to the touch. He has to admit the budding interest between his thighs, and not only the kind that’s sort of perpetually there whenever he talks to Kiyoomi. He’s aware he’s a weirdo. Kiyoomi does that to him. </p><p>Incidentally, though, they’ve never discussed sex via text message, at least not explicitly. But if Kiyoomi’s sick (allegedly) and they won’t be able to do anything for the next week--</p><p><strong>You:</strong> hot</p><p>Atsumu <em>will</em> punch himself in the face. He swears he will, as soon as he turns off his phone. God, how do people even do this?            </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>Oh</p><p><strong>You: </strong>anyway, just stating the obvious<br/>
not trying to start anything<br/>
if ur not interested</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>I am interested</p><p>Atsumu blinks down at his phone, wondering if his eyes don’t betray him. </p><p><strong>You:</strong> oh? <br/>
i thought u were doing yoga</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>I am<br/>
[attachment.jpg]</p><p>This is the photo that does Atsumu’s fragile constitution in. In it, Kiyoomi strikes a pose that Atsumu refuses to believe is of any yogic authenticity: kneeling with his back to the mirror, legs spread and ass popped out by the shallow curve of his spine, one elbow propped on the mat and the other bent as he twists over his shoulder to take the photo. Atsumu zooms in and then out, feeling like his eyes are being burned out of his skull. That can’t be Kiyoomi. Except it is. Kiyoomi looks into his phone, not meeting eyes with the camera, and--if Atsumu isn’t mistaken--a faint blush stains his cheekbones, like watercolor over marble.  </p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>This is frog.</p><p><strong>You:</strong> fucking hell</p><p><strong>Omi-kun:</strong> What do you think<br/>
Tell me</p><p><strong>You: </strong>gorgeous</p><p><strong>Omi-kun:</strong> Is that all?</p><p>When did Kiyoomi get so bold? He’s never asked for compliments. Atsumu could’ve been convinced he didn’t care for Atsumu’s opinion at all. </p><p><strong>You:</strong> no<br/>
can i tell you something?<br/>
just a hypothetical</p><p><strong>Omi-kun: </strong>Go ahead</p><p><strong>You: </strong>i’d fuck you like that if you asked</p><p> </p><p>When Kiyoomi recovers from his cold, and then some, he invites Atsumu up to his apartment. It’s a day off. They grab lunch, then idle away a few hours on conversation which mostly comprises bitching about other V.League teams. It’s surprisingly easy, once Atsumu stops fumbling like an idiot over how <em>date-like </em>the whole affair seems. A few times, he almost mentions his brother. A cough and an awkward change in topic or two do well enough to avoid that. </p><p>Kiyoomi’s apartment building is near-identical to Atsumu’s, though it’s on the opposite end of town. They ride the elevator in mutual silence. </p><p>Unlike Atsumu, Kiyoomi lives alone. His apartment--which bowls over Atsumu momentarily, because Kiyoomi <em>lives here</em>--is accordingly half the size, and sparsely decorated. The window on the far wall has blackout curtains, shutting out all but a trickle of the setting sun.</p><p>“Want something to drink?” Kiyoomi offers, removing his mask as Atsumu tromps sock-footed over the living room and peers into the bookshelf by the television.</p><p>“Nah, I’m good.” Said shelf, he quickly discerns, is populated entirely by horror movies. This is a chin-scratcher. He eyes the shelf, which alphabetizes <em>The Ring</em> sequels he didn’t even know existed, then looks back at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi lurks by the doorway, expression unreadable. “You like horror movies.”</p><p>“Yes,” Kiyoomi affirms, hesitant. “Want to watch one?”</p><p>“No,” Atsumu says quickly. “Also good.”</p><p>Kiyoomi humphs. Atsumu hopes that isn’t a disappointed humph. </p><p>“I don’t do horror movies,” Atsumu decides to confess, because Kiyoomi renders him unable to shut up for five seconds--a feature not unique to Kiyoomi, but which is undeniable. “I’m sorry. I hope that isn’t a deal-breaker.”</p><p>“It’s not.” Kiyoomi hangs up his jacket and draws over to him, nodding towards the bedroom door. “Shall we?”</p><p>They texted about a lot of things, that week. Some of those things lead to this: Atsumu, prone and pantless on Kiyoomi the horror movie buff’s bed, trying to ignore one of the menacing posters on the wall opposite him as Kiyoomi roots around in a drawer. To think that Atsumu was self-conscious about his volleyball posters. He supposes this answers some questions about what Kiyoomi does in his free time. </p><p>“I hope my hands aren’t too cold,” Kiyoomi says, producing a box of blue latex gloves. He rubs his bare hands together, blows on them with a little puff of air. “I’ll be gentle.”</p><p>“You don’t have to be,” Atsumu blurts. Kiyoomi’s eyes lower to meet his, and he shivers under that cool gray gaze. “Not my first rodeo.” </p><p>“That so,” Kiyoomi says tonelessly. He eases a pair of gloves out of the box, then slips each one on with a snap of the elastic around his wrists. Atsumu gulps. <em>Wow, I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me</em>. </p><p>“Awaken what?” Atsumu realizes he’s said it aloud. </p><p>“N-nothing. Ignore me. Just rambling.” How does one say <em>medical fetishes</em> with a straight face? Kiyoomi would probably find the idea sacrilegious. He’d better not.    </p><p>Then comes the lube, which Kiyoomi applies generously to his right hand, rubbing the liquid to warm it as he brushes over Atsumu’s thigh with the other. The sensation of the glove makes the hairs on his leg stand up; it’s alien, but not bad. Kiyoomi studies him with that same weird-sexy scientific curiosity and shifts down onto the bed. </p><p>Boxer-clad and divested of his sweater, he kneels in a plain sleeveless undershirt. Makes his killer bod look sufficiently killer. He’d look good in a potato sack, though. His hair’s been getting longer. Atsumu should tell him he likes it. “Are you comfortable like this?” Kiyoomi asks. </p><p>“Um--” He sits up, a little sudden, and starts to roll onto one hip. “Like this, maybe…”</p><p>Atsumu goes onto his hands and knees. He blushes a little at the position, because the last time he did this for a sexual partner he ended up getting pegged within an inch of his life--not a bad blush, mind. More Pavlovian. He folds his hands under his chin as he looks back at Kiyoomi. </p><p>Kiyoomi’s gaze traces down him, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and Atsumu feels acutely that he’s cataloguing every flaw. The pimple on his back probably being at the top of the list. One glove hand strokes down his spine, and Atsumu can’t help his shiver.</p><p>“Have you done this to yourself recently?” Kiyoomi asks. Not an accusation, though Atsumu might not mind if it was. Oh, to live in a world under stern dom Kiyoomi’s thumb.</p><p>“A little,” he says. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was, y’know.”</p><p>Kiyoomi’s eyes flick up to his. “Just fingers?”</p><p>“Yeah. Not like I have toys.”</p><p>“A shame.” Kiyoomi’s attention retreats further back enough to make Atsumu blush deeper; then he settles behind him, reaching around one hip with his dry hand. “They’d suit you.” </p><p>“Think so?”</p><p>“You wouldn’t have to show me.” Atsumu cranes his neck to catch Kiyoomi’s lip being pulled between his teeth as, finally, he spreads Atsumu with his dry hand and strokes one lube-wet thumb down his freshly-waxed perineum. For all he’s braced himself, Atsumu jolts. The lube is cold. He burns. “Just the specs would be enough.”</p><p>“You’re actually a perv, aren’t cha?” </p><p>Thorough and disinterested, Kiyoomi circles his hole. The temperature and anxiety-soaked anticipation of being fingered by another human being for the first time in--god knows--should make his erection flag. Shouldn’t make him harder, anyway. He lets his head drop and curls his toes into Kiyoomi’s sheets. “Is that a deal-breaker?” </p><p>“Hardly.” Atsumu laughs down at the pillow. “I mean...you thinking about me, ‘s hot.” </p><p>Kiyoomi hums, pausing his ministrations for a moment. “I’m going to put one in now.”</p><p>“Do it, champ.”</p><p>Kiyoomi puts one in. Atsumu cringes against the momentary discomfort, but relaxes readily. And then, heh. He has Sakusa Kiyoomi’s finger inside him. Take that, world. </p><p>“Would it make you more comfortable, then,” Kiyoomi says, nonchalant, pumping the finger slowly in and out, “if I told you I’ve thought about this?”</p><p>“I mean, I figured. We talked about it.”</p><p>“Not just that,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu can imagine him bristling. “Nevermind.”</p><p>“No, it’d totally make me comfortable--go on.”</p><p>The mattress dips as Kiyoomi shuffles closer. “I thought--just hypothetically--”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“--how you’d respond if I did this.” He works his finger deeper inside of him, teases a second around his rim. “If you’d blush and stammer. Or if you’d be demanding. I’m going to add another.”</p><p>“Roger,” Atsumu chokes, caught off guard by Kiyoomi’s musings--then lurches forward as Kiyoomi slips another long, slender finger inside, the stretch easy but not without a pinched-off ache. </p><p>“Or if you’d beg,” Kiyoomi continues, conversational. Geez, Kiyoomi paints a colorful picture. Atsumu hopes he doesn’t disappoint. “I’d taken refuge in the latter, because it was satisfying to think of denying you release when you were being…” He jabs his fingers in, upwards, towards the swollen spot where Atsumu aches for touch. “Frustrating.” </p><p>“Um,” Atsumu wheezes. <em>Holy shit</em>. Might he witness stern dom Kiyoomi yet. His back bows, just shy of forcing himself down on Kiyoomi’s fingers, and Kiyoomi’s dry hand comes up to stroke his side. </p><p>“Is that good for you?”</p><p>“You control freak,” Atsumu accuses instead. “Could’ve guessed--keep going.”</p><p>Kiyoomi hums. “If you were being especially bratty, I thought--first--I’d stuff your mouth with my cock, until you were sloppy with drool--”</p><p><em>Fuck me</em>, Atsumu thinks.</p><p>“And then I might bind your hands so you couldn’t--I’m sorry, what are your thoughts on bondage?”</p><p>“You can’t be serious.” The words trip over themselves. He’s blushing all over, down to his chest, cock spitting out drops of precum.</p><p>“Am I making you uncomfortable?”</p><p>“Fuck, no,” Atsumu rushes out. He plants his forehead into his fist. “Tell me.”</p><p>And Kiyoomi does.  </p><p> </p><p>Months pass, seasons change, and the V.League finals fall into Atsumu’s lap before he can even lift his head to greet it. But they’re the best team MSBY Black Jackals have ever had, their chemistry knitting tighter and blades sharpening with each successive game. Everyone on the court knows it. </p><p>So it’s not an upset. It’s testimony. </p><p>Atsumu sports a grin of pure toothy jackassery when he shakes Kageyama Tobio’s hand under the net, figuring that everything he’s thinking is writ plainly on his face and not caring--Tobio-kun’s going overseas next season, anyway. He can go knock himself out with cannoli if he so pleases. They <em>won</em>. </p><p>He does care a little when he gets carried away and picks Shouyou up mid-hug in front of the cameras. Naturally, given that Shouyou is 172 centimeters of pure muscle, Atsumu wheezes inelegantly with the effort and sets him down almost immediately--but by then, the damage is done. It’s immortalized. Shouyou doesn’t seem to care, or even notice. He goes off to hug Koutarou, and Kiyoomi, mid-towelling off his neck, stares back at Atsumu with a look that spells nothing less than <em>you idiot</em>. </p><p>The locker room is a mess. Even the older guys get caught up in it, thumping each other on the back and letting out woops like the seasoned professionals that they are. He keeps beaming at Kiyoomi, who’s tamping down his own grins to these little twisted-up smirks that make Atsumu’s heart beat faster, even though the game is over, they <em>won</em>, and it’s all he ever wanted--from this team, anyway. </p><p>Save for one thing, who isn’t a thing at all. But he doesn’t know. Maybe he can’t have that. </p><p>But there is something exhilarating about being categorically <em>into </em>someone, sometimes, and now’s one of those times. Makes the high higher. His blood pumps free under his skin. He chest-bumps Koutarou. It only hurts a little. </p><p>Their manager pops in to remind them about the press conference, snagging a few players for interviews in the meantime. The atmosphere cools. </p><p>“Atsumu.” Kiyoomi taps on the towel draped over his shoulders to get his attention. Atsumu blinks over at him, shower-damp and shirtless, and finds his smirk gone. His lips are pinched together, brows crinkled in a way that Atsumu has always found cute even if he didn’t admit it. “Follow me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Just--” He grabs Atsumu by the hand and starts towards the other end of the locker room, past the showers, pressing through a door to rows of toilet stalls. They’re all unoccupied. His fingers circle Atsumu’s wrist loosely, but Atsumu feels them like a brand. Add hand-holding to the list, then. </p><p>Kiyoomi releases his wrist and rounds on him, and by now his lips are pulled bloodless. Atsumu looks at them and then at Kiyoomi’s eyes--and that’s a look of indecision if he’s ever seen one. Bordering on fear. Kiyoomi’s hair falls ink-dark and sweaty around his face, shadowing the two forehead moles that Atsumu has long suspected are the source of his power. Atsumu repeats, “What?”</p><p>“Can I try something?” </p><p>“Anything,” Atsumu says, a bit too honestly. Kiyoomi’s fists seize up, then he reaches up and grabs the ends of towel around Atsumu’s neck, pressing himself forward. </p><p>His lips lower to meet Atsumu’s, soft and brief, and Atsumu can do nothing but receive it. He stuns. </p><p>The soft <em>smack </em>as Kiyoomi parts seems thunderous. Atsumu blinks up at him--their noses close enough to bump together, Kiyoomi’s hands still fisted in his towel. Kiyoomi’s breath feathers across his face, shallow and shaky. </p><p>“It seemed right,” Kiyoomi says, hardly above a whisper; “I just--thought I’d--”</p><p>Atsumu shakes his head minutely. “Don’t force yourself. Okay? It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything.”</p><p>“I know.” His voice rises. He retreats half a step, but doesn’t let go. “I know. It’s not for you, I--” He stops, swallows. Atsumu stumbles to keep up.</p><p>“You don’t have to explain--”</p><p>“I want to.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean--that came out wrong.” His eyes slide to the floor, and he scowls, bitter and ugly and the polar opposite of what his mouth should be doing right now.</p><p>“Look.” Atsumu lifts his hands, as if to meet Kiyoomi’s arms, and Kiyoomi releases the towel in the same instant. “Fuck everything else. What do you want?” </p><p>Gray eyes dart up to meet his. Atsumu’s heart thumps. “A...kiss.”</p><p>“Okay. You can have that.” </p><p>“I know,” Kiyoomi says bitterly, like he’s fully aware Atsumu is dying for infatuation or maybe something more and the knowing of it tortures him to sleep: “I’ve never--there’s nothing I want, that I can’t do.”</p><p>“Wow,” Atsumu says, a little distantly. “Bold. But true.”</p><p>“I’ve never wanted to change,” he goes on, “but I think for this, I might.” </p><p>“This?”</p><p>Kiyoomi’s face crumples. “Don’t play dumb.”</p><p>“I am dumb,” Atsumu says. His hands make it to Kiyoomi’s shoulders, squeezing him through the fabric of his clean T-shirt and quietly trying to re-tether his soul to his body. “You make me stupid.”</p><p>“Ugh.” Kiyoomi’s mouth screws up--Atsumu watches it happen, fascinated--and then he lurches forward and bumps it against Atsumu’s mouth again. His lips soften on impact, like melted ice cream, and gasp open like he can’t believe what he’s done. “I want--” His hands snake around Atsumu’s neck, clutch him forward so he can do it again. “To kiss you.” </p><p>“Was that so hard?”</p><p>Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. Atsumu grins. He resists the urge to kiss Kiyoomi again--he stinks of sweat and exertion, like victory, and he still wants to taste him like nothing else. But he’ll wait. He’ll make sure. “<em>Yes</em>.” </p><p>Voices echo from outside of the bathroom door. Kiyoomi slides his hands free, and they part a little, conscious of being discovered. It’s a little sobering. Like a glass of water versus ten martinis, but still. </p><p>“Is that all, then?” </p><p>“No.” Even without his body heat, Kiyoomi’s eyes burn. Atsumu half-sags against the sink at his hip. “Stuff we talked about.”</p><p>“Like?”</p><p>“Later.” Kiyoomi presses back into his space, clutching Atsumu’s wrist again. Atsumu stares down at it. “Let me buy you dinner.”</p><p>Atsumu’s eyes snap up. There’s nothing facetious there, hardly anything casual. “When?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Whenever.”</p><p>“Like...a date?” The gods are laughing at him. The furrow returns to Kiyoomi’s brow, and Atsumu could cry.</p><p>“Yeah, or whatever. Unless--”</p><p>“Fucking yes, let’s date.” Ah, fuck. Maybe he meant only once. Atsumu waits for a split second for any confusion to appear, but Kiyoomi’s forehead clears, features smoothing out. He looks--relieved. “Okay? And we can do anything you want. Whenever you’re ready.”</p><p>A fractional smile starts to curve Kiyoomi’s lips. His eyes slip down, over Atsumu’s incidentally naked chest, then back up. </p><p>In the space of a breath, Atsumu thinks: <em>how did I get so lucky? And why now? Did he tell himself if we won--that it was a sign, that he should make a move? But he’d never be so superstitious. Everything he does is measured, careful, weighed-out to the gram. What were the odds of this? What costs did he consider and discard? How much has he overcome?</em> </p><p>Atsumu slides his wrist from Kiyoomi’s grip, and instead of letting it fall, curves his palm against Kiyoomi’s. Their fingers intertwine. The angle’s off. His hands are calloused, warm, a little damp with sweat. </p><p>“You’re gonna have a hard time pretending to hate me, now,” says Atsumu. </p><p>“I never hated you.”</p><p>“I know. ‘Twas a joke.” </p><p>Kiyoomi kisses him once more before they leave. He grimaces and flinches away before Atsumu can start to savor it, but Atsumu doesn’t chase him. He lets Kiyoomi splash water on his face, his hands braced over the sink and eyes lowered, and goes on ahead. It’s a start. Kiyoomi will meet him when he’s ready. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Catch me on <a href="https://twitter.com/winwinism">Twitter</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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